


Precious

by stardustspirals



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, somewhat unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustspirals/pseuds/stardustspirals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor was plagued by dreams of Mairon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precious

Melkor was plagued by dreams of Mairon. The little Maia had such sharp, delicate features, fine golden hair with just the barest hint of red that Melkor could easily grab onto, wrap around his fingers and _pull_ , a devious smile--even his teeth were small and sharpish and oddly tempting. Melkor craved the feel of Mairon's somewhat thin but soft-looking lips, the taste of his tongue, the feel of the Maia's tender throat in his grasp; he could so easily crush the life out of the pretty little thing, or so it would seem, but admirable Mairon was also the lord of deception and lies, or nearly, and not so fragile as he appeared. Melkor found himself satisfied by the idea that he'd corrupted Mairon, had led him from sweet innocence to his own darkness, but he had seen the little seeds of defiance, of cruel interest, in those wide, pretty, serpent's eyes when still in Aulë's service, and now his Mairon had bloomed in full, had become magnificent in his wild but subtle wickedness.

So far, their physical interaction had been minimal, as Mairon had displayed an objection to being touched, nine times out of ten. But a few times, Melkor had seen Mairon shiver with pleasure rather than disgust when their hands had brushed, and once they had touched this way intentionally. Melkor had truthfully felt little sweeter than Mairon's long, clawlike nails gliding tenderly along his palm, and the Maia's gaze had been hazy with contentment, slit pupils widening, at Melkor's kisses against his slender fingers, along his palm and the inside of his delicate wrist. Mairon had sighed for more, running those fingers through the dark fall of Melkor's hair, dragging them through his scalp just hard enough to feel good. This had gotten a groan out of Melkor, but Mairon had _purred_ , a soft hum of satisfaction, when Melkor had stroked his face, and Melkor had been caught by the beauty of something as simple as the sight of Mairon's fine little red-golden lashes when he closed his eyes.

But it had gone no further than that, and Mairon had still snarled and lashed out with defensive anger, when ever-forward Melkor had attempted to pull that slender little body against his the next day. But that first encounter had been a tease, and ever since, Melkor had been plagued with dreams of milky skin and slender hips and hair the color of rose gold and bright reptilian eyes, but also of wet kisses and bruises and the whines he imagined his servant would make, tight virginal heat and a well of blood and broken skin, hisses of pain and whimpers of pleasure, Mairon's supple body twisting beneath his weight. Melkor wondered if Mairon's bones protruded from his hips, if his legs were as graceful as a woman's. 

But Mairon would have sneered in disgust of such thoughts as these, being as sexless as the Valar, all the Valar but Melkor himself, and the hunger they were unable to feel scorched his veins and filled him with a terrible rage, a rage that at times he half-considered inflicting on Mairon himself. Mairon, his prize, precious living symbol of his victory, more valuable than Fëanor's Silmarils or the many fine rings Mairon wore on his even finer fingers. Precious, Mairon, precious.

Even his name sounded fair and sweet, Mairon, Mairon, Mairon, and the shape of it on his tongue and lips, he spoke it over and over and let it overtake him, hand sliding down to stroke himself as he let it play in his mouth, and he cried it when his pleasure was spent. And the next morning, when faced with Mairon's scornful cackling at the sight of his face, the clever Maia's mocking demeanor was offset by Melkor's satisfaction at the fact that he had been listening at the door.


End file.
